we should live until we die
by hanate
Summary: a novelist, a photographer, and a coffee shop. there is a story here. but there is a picture, too. harry/henry, probably alternate universe.


**A/N:** im taking a lot of liberties in regards to silent hills wonky timeline with this so i apologize in advance for its stupidity

actually maybe its an au because of the blatant lack of monsters and ptsd

im not sure of it myself, i just have a lot of feelings

* * *

_**we should live until we die**_

* * *

A photographer walks into a coffee shop, and what he sees are the visuals complementing each other.

The curtains are drawn just so, the lights a little dim, the mugs colored brightly and in varying shapes and sizes. He walks in and he sees the way the atmosphere is created. He sees the movements people make when they talk and how it fits in his frame of sight. He goes to order his coffee. He sees the ripples in the liquid when the drink rests in his hand.

For the past half hour, a novelist has been sitting at a table by the window, his notebook open and his teeth chewing on the cap end of a ball point pen. When he is in the coffee shop, what he pays attention to are the stories.

A woman touches a man's forearm, cherry lips pulled into a smile, and he sees a romance. A man fidgets with his cellphone, and he sees a business drama. The reason that boy is squirming is because the line his mother is at is moving too slowly, and he wants an oatmeal cookie _now_. As the novelist holds his mug of coffee, he thinks of unseen creatures gently blowing over the liquid and turning it cool.

The photographer moves, his feet carrying over the carpeted floor. The patterns of it blend beneath his shoes, swirls of amber yellow mixing in with a deep crimson of royal origin. He finds a seat, but the table it's at is already occupied. His lips part in a question. The man he is speaking to lifts his head from his notebook, his lips lightly brushing against his ball pen.

The photographer asks again, nervous, if he can sit here.

The novelist smiles and nods his head.

The photographer sits. The novelist looks back down at his notebook and chews on his pen.

They sit together, and they are silent.

* * *

A novelist walks into a coffee shop, and his notebook has a couple of paragraphs written in it. He personally believes this work will Go Places, and he has never before been so sure of it. He's reached a terrible case of writer's block, though, and that is why he has come here.

Looking down as he shrugs his coat off, he doesn't see the look of recognition thrown his way until his gaze is at a normal level once more.

There, sitting by the window, is a man with his bangs brushing over his forehead, amber eyes directed at him in some kind of silent greeting.

The novelist lifts his hand in response.

The photographer looks embarrassed.

It starts with small talk, as reunions are wont to begin with. The photographer is doing fine, but he wishes he didn't order a macchiato—it is too sweet for him, he says. The novelist understands. He has always been a firm believer in coffee-flavored coffee, too.

They attempt to talk about the weather, but these words fall short. They're both not too good at this socializing thing, and they decide that perhaps it would be better not to force it.

The novelist orders a muffin; it is blueberry-flavored. He thinks of little people living in muffin houses, and of crafting a children's story for a little girl who's still in school right now. The photographer sees the little dustings of crust over the edges and the blue insides when the novelist takes a bite and moves the muffin away from his lips. He is thinking of colors and photo filters. When the novelist catches the photographer staring, he tilts his head to the side in a question.

Then the muffin is held out like a peace offering.

The photographer's cheeks color and his eyes widen a fraction.

The novelist tells him with a half-grin that it's okay if he wants a bite.

The last time the photographer ate a blueberry muffin, he was only a child.

When his teeth dig into the food, it tastes a lot like nostalgia.

* * *

They catch each other on the sidewalk on a particularly rainy day.

The photographer has a plastic envelope filled with prints over his head and he's running, his feet creating splashes in the puddles and his breaths creating fog in the cold. The world is turning gray under the downpour of water, like a monochrome effect seen through a cellphone lens. His vision is a little blurry in front of him.

The novelist is holding an umbrella, and it is a brilliant sort of blue clashing against the blurriness of the world around him. When he steps, it is with a sort of ease; the people around him clamber in a rush to find shelter, but he has gone out prepared in an archetype of 'wise old man'. They all struggle through the rain, but the novelist is okay, like a testament to every chosen one in novels of conformity.

It is the novelist who sees the photographer first, this time. As he walks at that leisurely pace, he sees a familiar off-white of a button down shirt, worn jeans moving as legs pound and take the man forward. They are walking in the same direction (or rather, the novelist walks, and the photographer runs), and all the novelist notices is the fact that the water is wearing through the fabric at his shoulders and getting the poor young man wet.

His mouth opens and a _hey_ wraps around his voice; there is no name attached, because they haven't gotten to that point yet. When the photographer doesn't turn, he tries again, and this time he runs towards him as the syllable cuts clear through the space between them.

The photographer turns just as the novelist gets the umbrella above him, those amber eyes of his sliding up to take in the color that's keeping him sheltered from the rain. Then his gaze shifts to the man holding the umbrella up, and the way his eyes pierce him rival the danger of swords. _What are you doing?_

The novelist shrugs his shoulders like it's an answer. _I'm being a nice guy._

The photographer flushes, and a drop of water slides down the line of his nose and off the tip.

They both know what time it is, and they both know where they're supposed to go. They head together, shoes making noises against the wet concrete, and while one thinks of the way the color of the umbrella leaves faded shades over their shoulders, the other thinks of the story of two men sharing an umbrella in the rain.

A photographer and a novelist walk into a coffee shop.

There are weirder things.

* * *

When they see each other again, the novelist's notebook is thick, and the photographer has a camera around his neck.

The photographer asks how the book's going, and if the novelist thinks it's going to be any good. The novelist lets out a laugh and shakes his head because he isn't sure. He's more interested in the camera, really, and could he see it, maybe? The photographer is a little embarrassed in response.

The novelist promises this: if the camera is given, he'll show him his notebook.

And that's how they end up swapping objects.

The pages make crinkling noises when the photographer turns them, and they are the color of napkins at formal dinners. The handwriting is scrawling and endless; when the words are struck out, they're scratched at almost frantically with the tip of the pen. The notebook smells like coffee, but most of all, it smells like the novelist's hands.

The camera, on the other hand, is old—the type that needs film and time in darkrooms. The lens is detachable and of a German brand, and it weighs a lot more than it looks. Around his neck, the gadget feels strange. But around the photographer's, it looks like it belongs. The novelist lifts the camera with two hands, and the gentle upturn of his brow is a silent question.

The photographer's smile is nervous in return.

A _click_ resounds between them, and the novelist lowers the camera from his eye. He watches as the photographer's index finger brushes fondly against a sentence on the page. And then, he thinks, his lips have pulled into a smile, too.

The sentence reads _there was once a young man who allowed his hair to grow to unholy lengths, and he ordered a macchiato for the first time in his life today._

That afternoon, they let their coffee grow cold.

* * *

A photographer walks into a restaurant, and he is nervous because he doesn't know how to tie a double Windsor. His fingers tug a little at the collar of his button down, and he feels sweat collect at the back of his neck. He doesn't think he's ever been so anxious before, but the butterflies in his stomach feel a lot more like a promise than a threat.

At a table by the window, a novelist sits with slicked back hair and his chin on his knuckles, elbows on the surface holding his hands up. The photographer flushes when the maître d' smiles suggestively at him as she gestures to the table and tells him that this is his reservation. He flushes even more when she tells him he was five minutes late.

The lighting here is a little bright, but not too much so. It's bathed in yellow, with little dots of orange that represent the burning candles in glasses at the tables. It's a quaint place, with just enough space to give an air of sophisticated freedom, and the whole atmosphere bleeds the first three colors of the rainbow. The photographer's feet move over the brown of the wooden floor, and he sees the cut of a woman's dress and the cuffs of a man's long-sleeved shirt. He sees how a table sits lonely in the corner with no-one in its two seats. In his mind, he breaks everything into frames, and he wonders about perspective and the rule of thirds and everything in between.

When he reaches his table, all those thoughts are flushed from his mind.

The only thing he can see and focus on is the nervous curl of the novelist's lips.

A story shakes on the novelist's mouth, but all he can muster is a _hi_.

The photographer asks him, softly, if he can sit here.

The novelist nods his consent.

* * *

A novelist drives a photographer home, and beneath a flickering streetlight, it's almost possible to look through the windshield and see two shadows press together.

The photographer rushes into his building, and the novelist feels a stupid grin on his mouth.

There is a story, here.

But there is a picture, too.

* * *

A little girl with dyed blonde hair receives a present in light blue wrapping paper from the photographer on her seventh birthday. Inside, there is a book, the header reading THE BLUEBERRY MUFFIN HOUSES and the footer reading WRITTEN BY HARRY MASON, ILLUSTRATIONS BY HENRY TOWNSHEND.

The little girl tells them that it sounds like an ultimately silly story.

The novelist smiles as the photographer attempts to convince the little girl otherwise.

There are words like _your father made this for you_ and _it's a little better than it sounds, really_ and _you can't knock it 'til you try it, Cheryl_. The photographer is severely out of his element; his hands are a little awkward as they gesture, his lips nearly forming a pout. He ends up turning to the other adult in the room as if asking for some help in defense, but all he receives is a ducked head and a hand lifting to cover the lower half of the novelist's face. The photographer, of course, catches in this moment that the novelist doesn't mind if the little girl thinks the book silly. And he supposes that maybe that's alright.

When he turns back to her, the girl is staring at him, a look of disbelief on her face. She's hugging the book tight to her chest now, however, and this vision has the photographer's eyes lighting up with joy. It's shattered quickly when she finally scrunches up her nose and tells him he's a doofus.

This time, the novelist ends up laughing.

* * *

A novelist walks into a coffee shop.

On his cellphone, there reads a message from last night: _I'll see you tomorrow, right, Harry?_

And there is only one place they meet.

He enters and he no longer sees the stories. The lives of other people are suddenly not quite as interesting, and when a man trips and spills his coffee on a woman, the novelist no longer wonders whether they will end up a romantic comedy or a tragedy. He only heads to a familiar table beside a window, and he opens his notebook with a content smile on his face.

A person doesn't look for stories when they've fallen into one of their own.

That much is all he knows.

It takes a few minutes, but the photographer bursts in, his hair a mess and sweat dripping down the curve of his jaw. He's come from somewhere far away, maybe—the job of capturing the world through a lens tends to call for that—and when he swallows and makes his way over, the world is in black and white. The colors don't seem to matter; they fade away in the corners of his vision as he moves forward. There, however, by the window, is a burst of hues to his eyes, and he approaches the novelist and gives him an awkward smile. He's late again, he knows, and he's sorry, he won't do it again.

The novelist tells him that it's okay. He's got no problem with patience.

There is a kiss, somewhere.

There is color even when the photographer's eyes shut closed.

* * *

The photographer is always late.

It has been a year, and it has been an eventful year. The novelist remembers stolen moments in darkrooms, kite building with his little girl, the way the photographer's cheeks color in embarrassment every time the novelist whispers a secret into his ear. It's been an eventful year, and it's been filled with coffee. More importantly, however, it's been filled with life.

The novelist has gotten his book approved for publishing; some thousand copies will be printed within the month and sent for distribution afterward. The photographer, in turn, has finally gotten his portfolio finished. It took a while for the both of them, but success never _does_ come easy.

The little girl is receiving a medal today. A gold for good academics. The novelist sits in the audience with one chair open beside him, and he doesn't worry about the photographer's current absence, because all that's happening is an introduction speech from the principal. She spins stories about hard work and the bright lights of our future. The novelist claps at the appropriate times.

The minutes tick by, though, and with it comes a feeling of trepidation. The perfect attendance awardees are called to stage. Then the bronze. Then the silver.

When he's on stage putting the gold medal on his little girl, she whispers about a man named Henry.

The novelist doesn't know how to answer her.

At lunchtime, they end up filling only two chairs at a table meant for three.

* * *

A photographer stands in his living room, wearing a light blue button down and a suit jacket.

Today, a little girl is receiving a gold medal for good academics.

But there are locks and chains on his door.


End file.
